


Rustic Hospitality

by epersonae



Series: The Magcretia Chronicles [5]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 19:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epersonae/pseuds/epersonae
Summary: If 90% of backrubs lead to something...more.... Well, this is one of them.





	Rustic Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same continuity as my Aftermath stories, almost certainly right after Moments that words don't reach.

His feelings are a jumbled mess, and although that’s become sort of the norm lately, tonight it’s hitting him really hard. So Magnus does what comes naturally, which is to try to be a good host.

“Want another cider?” he asks Lucretia as he lets go of her shoulders.

She hums appreciatively.

“Yes, I think I will. Thank you.”

As he returns from the kitchen with two bottles, he pauses to look at her on the couch. She’s facing away from him, looking into the fire, and everything about her is this multi-layered thing that he can’t quite find the right words to describe. 

Everything about his life is that way now: he had this fixed sense of who he was, who he had loved and lost, and he’s had to reincorporate so much. But some of it was easy, relatively speaking, reincorporating friendships was easy, reincorporating his feelings for Taako was easier than he had expected. Maybe because they were both in the same boat, and hell, Taako’s been absorbing so much more change, so much more confusion. It’s easier for him when he’s the one being supportive.

Lucretia, though; she was his boss for over a year, his stern wry  _ older _ boss, who maybe he sort of had a crush on? But still: boss. And now, he has to remember that they’re almost exactly the same age, and she was that shy girl? Who he fell for, hard? They had decades together, they knew each other so well. He trusted her advice, he tried to protect and care for her. And then, and then, and then she did that to them?

Forgiving is easy for him, always has been, that turns out to have been true even with all his memories restored. How many minutes passed between pointing a sword in her face and enveloping her in a hug? 

She turns and looks at him.

“Hey there, space cadet, are you bringing that cider or not?”

He hands her the bottle as he sits beside her, and she swings her legs into his lap.

“That was a solid relaxing 10% class backrub,” she says before popping the cap and tipping back to drink. One of the more disconcerting things about where they’re at now is that he still can’t quite tell when she’s teasing him and when she’s serious. Then again, another one of those things is the way her neck looks and the little hollow at the base of her throat and how he has been wanting to kiss it, but also how he used to kiss her there all the time. So he just blushes and looks at his hands.

 

She has, apparently, completely forgotten how to flirt. Because she was trying to tease him, and now he's just staring. She takes her legs off of his lap, sets the cider down on the coffee table, and makes a gesture for him to turn around. 

“Your turn,” she says, and he blinks rapidly at her. “I said I would give you a backrub.”

“Really?” She has no idea what he means: did he not believe her? Does he not want a backrub? 

“Yes, really.” Did that come out too harsh? She takes a deep breath. 

They say each other's names in unison, and then they both laugh. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and she can feel him relax, just a bit. He's nervous. She didn't expect that. 

“Do you  _ want _ a backrub?” she asks, finally. Relief washes over her when that frankness is rewarded with a crooked smile. He takes another drink of his cider before setting it down and shifting around on the couch.

She rests her hands on the tops of his shoulders, pushes her thumbs up either side of his neck. He lets out a soft groan, and she leans forward, putting her body weight into her arms, kneading the tops of his shoulders.

“Are those boys not taking care of you?” He goes pink and she chuckles. “They’re just taking advantage of how much you like to please others.” She clucks her tongue and reaches one hand up into his hair. It feels like a dare with herself -- how far can she take this thing? But he tilts his head back into her hand, and so she gently skritches his scalp. She tugs at his hair and he inhales sharply. Oh, she had honestly forgotten how much he liked that. She combs through his hair with her fingers and then does it again. His little huff of breath gives her a bit of a rush.

“Lu...Lucretia.”

“Mm-hmm.” With her other hand she grabs his shoulder, gives it a big squeeze. She lets go of his hair and uses both hands to massage his neck again, the tops of his shoulders, down his back. He leans forward, and she slips her hands under his shirt to massage his lower back. She rests her hands on the love handles, just a little softness over his muscles. He makes a slightly uncomfortable noise.

“Hey, did you get self-conscious while I wasn’t looking?” she asks.

He clears his throat, but doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe a little bit?”

“Mmm, don’t be?” She’s not sure what else to say, so in lieu of words, she just pushes his shirt up a little higher, running her hands up his back. It’s been so long since she’s just touched someone like this, and she wants to devour all of his skin with her fingers. But she goes slowly, carefully, sticking to massage touches, keeping her hands firm and steady along either side of his spine. She pushes the shirt up some more. “May I?” she asks, and he nods, and then she pushes it over his head, and he pulls the sleeves off and drapes the shirt over the back of the couch.

 

She just took off his shirt, and she’s touching his back, and her hands are so steady, a little coolness to them, but absolutely no hesitation. He’s still thinking about what it felt like when she pulled at his hair and he almost wants to ask her to do it again. But he’s not sure how far he can take this with her, where this is leading them. So he just leans forward, and she continues with her backrub.

Her fingers pop loudly after digging in under his shoulder blades.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

He reaches around behind his back and takes hold of her wrist, then gently pulls her close until he can massage her hand. The tendons creak under his touch, but her hand is still delicate and gorgeous, and she lets out a soft sigh as he works the tension out of her fingers.

He lets go of her hand, but twists around and takes the other one to massage. He can see her face go slack, and then a soft smile as her eyes fall closed. He rubs up her hand and onto her wrist. Always she's carried so much tension in her wrists.

“Hey, I thought I was giving  _ you _ a backrub,” she says, her eyes still closed.

“Is this not okay?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I see.” And he switches back to the first hand, massaging that forearm. He looks into her face, more relaxed than he’s seen it in -- how long, anyway? -- the crinkling of barely visible wrinkles, the long eyelashes, the little half-smile, and he leans forward to kiss her. He was thinking just her forehead, that seems safe, but at the last moment she opens her eyes and tilts her head up at him and he’s kissing her on the lips. It’s like her mouth melts against his, which, right, of course, cool. He used to love kissing her, he used to love the contrast of how she kissed (soft, slow, tender) to how Taako kissed (fast, messy, aggressive). It’s still good, it’s still so good.

When he pulls away, she’s smiling, a lazy knowing smile. She rests a hand on his cheek and sighs.

“Have I told you that you are an excellent kisser, Magnus Burnsides?”

He can feel his face getting hot.

“Because you are. You are a great kisser, and I’m a damn fool for having done anything so that you weren’t right here where I could kiss you all the time.”

He rubs the back of his head and looks down at her sparkling dark eyes.

“Same,” he says, takes her head in his hands, and kisses her again.

 

It gives her a bit of a thrill, finding her confidence in the moment; she’s gotten used to being confident in so many situations, except intimacy. She hasn’t been this close to another person in...so long.

She touches his chest and she can feel his heartbeat in her fingertips. Or is it her own heart beating? She lets out a long shaky breath as they pull away from another kiss.

Then she runs her fingers down the length of his torso. She traces a long scar with her fingertips across his ribs. There are so many scars criss-crossed on his chest and his belly, seams and interruptions through his body hair. She wants to touch them all. She wants to know the story of every one, even as she's afraid to know. She splays her hands out across his chest and thus feels the great intake of breath. She looks up at him and his eyes are huge, his nostrils slightly flared. Something in his expression she can't quite read, but it's good, she thinks. 

She brushes a thumb across one nipple; he sucks in a breath through his teeth and then grins. That she recognizes, and she reaches to tweak the nipple while letting her other hand slide down to his waistband. 

She asks, “Yes?” as she finds herself chewing on her lip like a nervous teenager. 

“Oh gods yes.”

She undoes the laces and slides her fingertips along his waist. She’s torn between the impulse to grasp and touch as fast as she can and the need to savor every second. So she slowly trails the fingers of one hand along his hip while trying to yank down his pants with the other.

“Nothing under the pants,” she says in what she hopes is a mischievous tone. “That makes this easier.” He laughs that big warm laugh, but it ends with a groan as she wraps a hand around his shaft. He lifts his hips for her to pull off his pants, and as they fall to his ankles, she slides to the floor between his legs.

“Really?” he says in a small soft voice.

“Absolutely.”

She ghosts her hands along the tops of his thighs before settling into position. She strokes slowly, steadily; she rests her tongue on the underside of the tip. He smells like heat, like cider; he smells like a nearly-forgotten home.

She shifts to her knees -- a position that won’t last long, but it’s right for right now. She looks up at him: the rise and fall of his chest, the flush rising up his neck, the almost-lost look in his eyes as he swallows heavily.

“You’re gorgeous, Magnus.” She licks in a long stroke in unison with her hand. His eyes fall closed. “Every bit of you is perfect,” she whispers. He groans. Another lick, and this time she takes him in her mouth. She hums around him and he thrusts his hips, whining. It’s a bit uncomfortable in the jaw, but she licks and strokes and sucks, murmuring her affection.

Seeing his white-knuckled hands gripping the cushions, she whispers, “You can touch me if you want.”

Her name escapes him like a curse or a prayer, and he pushes his hands into her curly hair. More, she just wants more of this. But he pulls her head back abruptly.

“Too much, too much, not yet.”

 

He’s gone tunnel-vision: her hands, her mouth, and the increasing urgency. Not yet: when he reaches for her, he realizes she’s still dressed, and that absolutely won’t do. He can’t -- he won’t -- she mustn’t go untended. She looks up at him, her dark eyes wide, her mouth swollen and slick with spit. She unselfconsciously licks her lips and he pulls her up into his lap. He pushes her dress up to pool in her lap as he bends his head to kiss her. Oh, that spot in the hollow of her throat. 

“That was amazing,” he murmurs into her collarbone, “but not yet.” 

“Oh really?” and she reaches down to stroke him again.

“You’re very bad for my concentration,” he says.

She chuckles, but it dissolves into a moan as he slides a hand up her skirt, gently stroking her thigh.

“I mean, look at all these little buttons,” he continues, removing his hand from her thigh -- she gasps, frowning slightly -- and playing with the neckline of her dress. “How am I supposed to deal with that when you--” He bites back a groan as she strokes again with a wicked smile. He breathes through his nose, and then twists her around, lays her on her back on the couch and just pushes up the dress, never mind the buttons. 

“This is my favorite dress,” she says faintly. 

“And it's gorgeous on you. But let's get it off?”

She laughs, and it's glorious, low and rich and wanton, and it takes everything he has to not just tear her dress off. But they shimmy it off of her and she's laying there in plain blue panties and bra, a rosy flush to her dark skin. 

She looks at him, and then she looks away. 

“I'm so lucky,” he says, and he can't keep the feeling of awe out of his voice. 

She whispers, “No” and shakes her head ever so slightly. 

“Yes” and he kisses her cheek, her neck, her sternum, her belly, all the time whispering yes, yes, yes. She groans and arcs towards him. He smiles into her skin as he fumbles off her bra. She sighs as her breasts fall and he cups them. 

Her panties are already entirely soaked through, and that makes the breath catch in his throat. He presses the heel of his hand on her. 

“Magnus, please.”

He presses again, just to feel how she rocks up towards him. 

“Magnus, I'm going to…”

He puts an arm around her waist and just holds her as she twists and moans, as her hips push up towards him. He can feel his own desire, his screaming need, but he tries to put that out of his mind. 

She sighs, and bites her lip, and her eyes are searching his face for something. But all she says is “Um. Wow.”

He takes a deep breath, and realizes that the whole room smells of her, some sort of peppermint soap, that's new to him, but her sweat and her sex smells are like being jolted into a younger self, a hundred years of her right there. But they're not on the Starblaster, they're in his little house, a home for after the apocalypse. It makes him a little dizzy. 

He pulls off her panties -- maybe tears them a little -- and gently laps at her with his tongue. A long flat stroke, tasting her, feeling the throbbing aftershocks under his tongue. He glances up: her mouth hangs open and her breathing is fast and shallow. Her eyes, her eyes are huge. 

He pulls back for a moment. 

“Is this… Is it ok?”

Her laugh has an almost hysterical tinge, and she just grabs his hair. She hooks her legs around his neck. 

 

She's going to come twice in nearly as many minutes and she'd feel embarrassed about it if she wasn't totally overwhelmed with sensation. His mouth, his tongue, his hands: his hands are on her hips as he's crouched between her legs, and as much as she wants his fingers inside, his grip keeps her grounded, the same way his hair in her fingers keeps her grounded. She twists her fingers and the resulting moan against her just drives her harder. His tongue teases her and she whines and twitches. 

Yes, there and there and there, and she can hear herself laughing as if from a great distance. 

And then she is completely wordless and languid, smiling at him as he lays his face on her thigh. It's charming, he's so charming. 

“How’re you doing?” he says, and she can't help but laugh. 

“How are  _ you  _ doing?” And she finally lets go of his hair and runs a finger down the back of his neck. He draws a quick breath. She sits up, with some difficulty, and pushes him back. 

A kiss, then, and she sucks on his lower lip, her taste on his mouth heady. 

“Upstairs?” he says. “I've got…” He blushes, and it's adorable. 

“Of course,” but she kisses him before standing. And when they do stand, she can't stop herself from running her hands over him. Another stroke, and she rubs her thumb over the tip, spreads that wetness over, feels it velvety, hears him moan again. “Lucretia.” His low voice has a note of warning, and his hands reach for her waist, the curve of her ass, lift her lightly, easily. He's fucking her standing, and how long has it been since they did that? It's not deep, it's just enough to be there while he walks across the room and starts up the stairs, but they're definitely doing this and both breathing fast, both trying for just a little more without losing their balance. 

He stumbles a bit on the stairs, and they separate. She sits on a step, looking up at him. 

“Careful, you're not twenty anymore,” she says, but he laughs. 

“Luce, I'm stronger now than I was then.”

He flexes -- dear, sweet, silly showoff -- and then just tosses her over his shoulder, runs the rest of the way up the stairs, and well, he has been training and adventuring, hasn't he? He sets her down gently and kisses the top of her head, tips her chin up and kisses her forehead, her cheeks; they kiss, finally, like the end of the world is over and they can kiss for as long as they want. 

But they're standing in a doorway, and his erection is pressing against her, and she's dripping wet and really, they need to be in a bed together right now. She runs into his room, jumps on his bed (when is the last time she lay on his bed?), lays back and watches as he rummages through drawers, rolls on a condom. But he just stops and stares at her, his brows drawn into the faintest frown. 

“What is it?”

“I just want to remember you like this.”

A rush of feeling closes her throat, all the thoughts she pushes away every day and for a second…. 

But he's at her side, he's caressing her, touching her softly, urgently, and all that sadness drifts away under his hands and his smile. 

He pushes her legs open, his fingers lingering on the softness of her inner thighs. 

“May I?”

“Always.”

He slips in and they both sigh, they find a rhythm, a pace that keeps quickening, slowing as they pause to just look at each other, speeding again for more, please more, just a bit more. She's moaning as that pulse starts up again, the friction, the pressure on all the right spots. He's mumbling her name, all the variations of her name, all the nicknames he ever called her over a hundred years, her name tumbles out of him over and over. 

 

Later, they sleep; hours pass, the moon sets and the sun rises. They sleep tangled together, deep and untroubled, neither plagued by the insomnia that both have so often suffered the last decade. 

And it's well into the morning when a door opens and a dog barks in greeting. 

“Oh sweet Istus,” says Magnus, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, as a bright voice calls up the stairs, “Hi sir, I mean Dad, I'm home!”

Lucretia giggles into his shoulder. 

“Hey, it's not funny,” he says. 

“It's a little bit funny.”

He sighs and then also laughs. 

“Okay, a little bit funny.” He gets up and shrugs on a robe. “All right, let me see if I can redirect the world's greatest detective, and I'll be right back.” He kisses her forehead and she watches with a fond smile as he walks away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnd now I'm thinking that Mags was a little defensive at Poker Night for a good reason.... ;)
> 
> Also, lol at the longest fic I've written being just plain ol' PWP.


End file.
